
tories 



-in- 



Rhyme 

"Uncle Ho" 

Homer P. Branch 



z_. 



Stories 



-in- 



Rhyme 



by 



"Uncle Ho" 

Homer P. Branch 




PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR 
SUMNER, IOWA 






No literary news has gained such 
Statewide interest in Iowa for years 
as has the story that Homer P. 
Branch (Uncle Ho) of Sumner is re- 
vising his poems for the purpose of 
publishing a new book, and commit- 
ting to memory for platform rendition 
those best fitted for this purpose. Now 
that the "booster" renaissance is up- 
on the fair state of Iowa, friends are 
urging Uncle Ho to rewrite his fam- 
ous Indian legends and stories in 
rhyme, the work of his youth, and give 
them the master touch of his noonday 
skill. Such improvement on the work 
launched in the glorious morning of his 
poesy would make a product that Iowa 
is ripe to receive. The special interest 
aroused by Mr. Branch's new plans is 
caused by the fact, most likely, that in 
a large measure his poetical writings 
have been in praise of Iowa, her sunny 
dells, her shady nooks, her teeming 
fields, her pretty features of nature, her 
pioneers, her great people of today, and 
the more pleasant and romantic of the 
traditions of her aboriginal days. Ho- 
mer P. Branch is a booster poet; not a 
dreamer, but a poet of rich red blood 
whose works are bound to stay and be 
liked better and better. — Register and 
Leader, Des Moines, March 31, 1912. 



' Copyright, 1912 
By Homer P. Branch 



0848805 



(tattling park's Sinn\ us lie 
TnTri it tn Tte Srxmi 



Had a fight last night with the Injuns? 
Well, 

'Twas a savage night to be out, 
And the rain was as heavy as ever fell — 

Sayl ain't you a gover'ment scout? 

Thought so! I used to be a scout myself, 
Then got into the ranging way, 

And stick to it ez I make more pelf, 
And am free to go or to stay. 

Your speakin' of the rain, the wolves, 
the fight, 

An* the numerous Sioux about, 
Puts me in mind of jest sich a night 

Some years ago and I was out. 

The thunders roared and the lightnin's 
flashed, 
And the wind blew a hurricane, 
The elements rastled and tore and 
clashed 
Ez if the night had gone insane. 

I was ridin' well armed along the range, 
Mounted snug on a broncho stanch, 

But I felt somew'at narvous and jest a 
bit strange, 
For I'd lost the trail to the ranch. 

The night it was cold and jet black 
dark, 
The wolves howled along my trail 
Like a hundred demons let loose on a 
lark, 
And I felt jest a trifle pale. 

To complicate things, I heard a war- 
whoop, 
A fierce yell, that echoed and broke 
Like the Wild Witch's shriek up on 
old North Loup, 
And nigh startled mo out of my 
•'yoke." 



I sat still and dumb, like a chap that's 
scared, 
And didn't know what to do next, 
And Spry, my broncho, jost squatted 
and reared 
Fershe, too, was scared and perplexed. 

A boom o' guns and a white man's 
shout, 

Ea he cheered his pards to fight, 
Aroused me in a jiff to turn about, 

And we plunged back into the night. 

The yells and the shootin' kept us in line, 
And we made for it quick ez we could, 

I pulled my revolver and old carbine, 
They were spunky and loaded good. 

We landed plunk into a hundred Sioux, 
Bloody varmints, all painted and 
stark; 
Spry jumped and I shot and we made 
our way through, 
Without loosin' a bit of bark. 

We came to a halt in a mover's camp. 
And was given a hearty cheer; 

We all j'ined hands and gave the braves 
the cramp, 
So they skuddled and left us clear. 

The night and the rain went off with 
the Reds, for 
We had fought till the gray of morn; 
We was mighty glad we had closed the 
war, 
Not feelin' a bit forlorn. 

None of us was hurt, but a dozen Sioux 

Had been carried away so lame 
Ez to show clear' 'nough 'at they'd got 
their dues, 
And with none but 'emselves to blame. 

We was s^akin' hands like pard and 

friend, 
When a scream startled us, so wild 
That the hair on our heads just stood 

on end — 
, 'Twas the cry of a little child! 



A sneakin' Red had come up on the sly, 
And had captured a little tod, 

And was ridin' swift toward the north- 
ern sky — 
whizzeel how he traveled the sod! 

The rest of 'em j'ined him, and off they 

went 
A scuddin' toward Old Camp Meade, 
And't seemed's though the Old Nick 

himself had lent 
'Em especial powers o' speed. 

The mother cried that little Marie 
Would be burned to death at the 
stake, 

And the father was as crazy as she. 
And the boys was all in a shake. 

I threw off my coat, jumped into the 
yoke, 
And pulled my hatchet from the sack; 
Afore you could wink I was goin' like 
smoke, 
Stoutly settled on Old Spry's back. 

And 'fore I knew jest what we was 
about 
We was among them pesky reds, 
And I got the child from the clutch 
of a lout 
And broke in a half dozen heads. 

Then Spry sprung about (oh, she knew 
the trick 1 
She learnt it while herdin' cows 
For she was trained for the range) and 
right quick 
We left 'em 'thout any farewell bows. 

The Reds turned for us, but Spry was a 
goer, 

And we led 'em a crazy chase, 
Till after a while they gave us floor, 

For we had the best of the race. 

I rode into camp like a knight of old, 
With Beauty hung faint on my arm. 

And I felt like a hero, brave and bold, 
With & heart boatin' strong and warm, 



The boys pulled me down soon as I said 
"whoa!" 

The mother hugged me tight an' kist 
Me jest as my mother did years ago — 

In the years gone back into mistl 

I cried like a child, sir, yes sir, boss, 
When that mother's arm twined my 
neck — 

It was as a life-line thrown out across 
The hulk of a foundered wreck. 

For I had been tough in my cowboy lif e, 
Hadn't always stuck to the right; 

Had mixed up a good deal in frontier 
strife. 
Which is seldom exactly white. 

And then wo en the old man came for'ard 
and stood 
Pale ami tremblin' and seemin' faint, 
And shook my bad hand as if I was good, 
And blessed me as one would a saint- 
Well, I had to surrender right there and 
then! 
Said I: "Kind friends, I'm Cowboy 
Jack; 
Hain't been no account since I can't tell 
when, 
And run with a dare-devil pack. 

"I'm known here 'bouts as a mighty 
tough case, 

A bad one, when it comes to fight — 
A fellow what's got a purty hard face 

When looked at by civilized light. 

"But if God stays by me and helps in 
the chore, 

I'll swear off, and brace up, right; 
I'll kick my bad habits out of the door, 

And fight 'em with all my might. 

"If the mother here, God bless her good 
heart! 
She is surely a Christian true, 
Will give me a lift with a pra'r for a 
start, 
I'll swear to be a man, true-blue. " 



The mother knelt on the buffalo grass, 
And in accents tender and low, 

Thanked God that the life of her blue- 
eyed lass 
Had been saved, that the cruel blow 

Had been warded off. Then she prayed 

for Jack; 

Call (;d me brave, big-hearted and good, 

Asked God in his kindness to take me 

back — 

And she told him she knew he woul d 

Into the walls of his wondrous fold, 
Into the arms of his great love; 

That my name as a convert be enrolled 
On the big book there above. 

This was all I heard, for objects grew 
dim, 

And I seemed to float — float — away 

In a cold, dizzy dream, to the dark brim 

Of a storm-beaten ocean bay — 

To a cottage small on a hillside bare, 
The picture of my boyhood home, 

And I seemed to dwell for a moment 
there, 
In the warmth of mother's room. 

Then I felt no more — was like one dead— 
But when I roused from the spoil, 

I found myself in a warm, cozy bed, 
Feoiin' weaklike, but midlin' well. 

My pard, Big Bill, was sottin' by my 

side, 

Fannin' me with his old slouch hat, 

And when I "come to" I thought he'd 

a died 

With his laughin, prancin' and that. 

"Whist!" said he, "Ye fainted, old boy, 
yer hurt — 

A gash in the back of yer head — 
Wonder it hadn't laid ye in tho dirt 

Instid of a snug feather bed. 

"The redskins gave ye an ugly slit 
In yer scrajjwith V;n down the <:reek» 



8 



But as good luck has it yer right here 

yit, 

Andll be all right in a week." 

Then he went to the door and called the 
folks 

And capered so he'd clear gone daft, 
Jest started in fer stories and Jokes, 

And hollered, and sung and laughed. 

And I thought the rest as loony as he, 
When they dashed in, every one, 

And the lass I saved bounced up and 
hugged me, 
And the rest did as she had done. 

Yelled Bill: "Old pard. ye lit in the 

right nest 

When ye struck that mover's camp — 

See yer mammy, sister, dad and the 

rest, 

Aint ye tickled, ye wuthless scamp V 

^Twas mother, sure as your alive, 

And sweet little sister, too, 
That was born long after I came to 
strive 

In the land of the savage Sioux. 

Twas dad and the boys that I helped 
that night 

In the fight on the open plain, 
And sister, dear, I saved (bless her sight) 

From the fire stake's horror and pain. 

They had come out west in search of 

good times; 

They was purty hard up back there, 

But they'd all been dead as old Pap 

Grimes, 

If 't hadn't been for me'n the mare. 

The folks settled down here on my old 
ranch, 
And here we all live today, 
Right on the old trail to Camp Oom- 
manch', 
Blighty mite from there, so they B&y. 



■ - 

We're as happy as can be the whole 
year through; 
Say! it's gettin' nigh about noon, 
Better picket your hoss down there in 
the slough, 
We'll have dinner now purty soon. 

There's blood on yor arm, boy! they 
winged ye — hey? 
Dead sure! only a flesh wound, though; 
Come into the house — the woman folks 
they 
Will doctor you up so-so. 

Tonight we're goin' to have a party here, 

A weddin' if I may say; 
Taint often you scouts fall in with such 
cheer, 

So you had better stay. 

It's goin' to be quite a time, you see, 
For Cap'n JoeTumms, of Fort Knapp, 

Is goin' to be j'ined with little Mai'ie — 
They say ho's a fine young chap. 

She met him at Denver a year ago, 
And they've been courtin' ever since? 

She's the pet of the ranch, and, don't 
you know, 
Her goin' sort of makes me wince. 

She's the sweetest angel under the sky, 
And if Joe don't use her as such, 

Hfc'll have to tell me the reason why, 
I'm free to predict that much. 

He was here last fall with Buffalo Bill, 
Then again this spring with his troop 

To meet General Sherman at Baldwin's 
Hill 
And escort him down tho Loup. 

But I was away both times he camet 
Hain't even seen his picture, so 

Wouldn't know him from any other 
game 
Passin' as you might say, to and fro. 



10 

From hear say he must be about your 
size, 
And — what's that? Well! you're 
Cap'n Tummsl 
And here comes Marie on the run! My 
eyes! 
They're a huggin' like two old chums! 



Bunting Sxmrj 

Dipping, dipping, dipping, 
As we lightly row, 
Gaily through the water lipping 
Goes our boat like fairy tripping. 

Floating, floating, floating, 
Out upon the stream, 
Go we, drift we, at our boating, 
Half a dozen pleasures noting. 

Musing, musing, musing, 
Sit we restfully, 
While our drowsy boat is cruising 
Listlessly without our choosing. 

Sighing, sighing, sighing, 
Talking carelessly, 
Loving looks our words belying, 
Cupid blindly o'er us flying. 

Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming, 
Are sweetheart and I, 
While the sunlit sides are beaming, 
On our love with joyous seeming. 



®U Step's Wzlmmz 

From "Josh's Questions." 

Did yew ever in the darkness stop at 

the farmyard gate, 
Lights a blinkin' in the winders, time 

jest a trifle late, 
And hear Old Shep come snarlin' tew 

the fence and rushin' threw, 
Jest tew wag his tail in welcome when 

he found taht it was yew? 



II 



A party of twenty stalwart Sacs, 
With never a thought of foe's at- 
tacks, 
Went hunting and trapping within 

the bounds 
Of their long accustomed hunting 

grounds, 
In the primal days before the 

whites 
Usurped the red man's ancestral 

rights. 
They left their village amid the 

cheers 
Of gay groups of their warrior peers. 
And happy children that played 

about 
In many a wild, delighted rout; 
Some carried the smile of wife or 

child 
Away in their hearts, others the 

mild, 
Coy glance of a maiden's fond dark 

eyes — 
And they rowed away 'neath sunny 

skies. 

On the upper Wapsipinicon 

Their midsummer hunting has be- 
gun; 

Far away from noises of the camp, 

Far away from sound of horse's 
stamp. 

They went to the dark and solemn 
wood 

Where game was less wary, hunting 
good, 

Beside the river where they could 
use 

Their handy and strong dug-out 
canoes. 

The plump brown bear was a splen- 
did prize 

For the hunting Sac's bold enter- 
prise; 

The stately elk and the browsing 
moose, 

The stalking crane and the fat wild 
goose, 



12 



Were easy prey to the marksman 

true 
Who was ambitious to dare and do. 
They hunted and slaughtered, day 

by day, 
A toothsome, nourishing array 
Of fowl and venison, and all the 

game 
Known to aboriginal fame. 
In the open day they hung their 

meat 
To dry in the summer sun's fierce 

heat, 
And some they cured with coarse 

rock salt, 
During their famous hunting halt, 
Until with hampers and sacks all 

full 
They began their way down stream 

to pull, 
Merry at heart, toward home with 

vim, 
Passing the long days with chant 

and hymn. 
At night they camped on the grassy 

bank 
'Neath the waving basswoods green 

and dank, 
And dried in the early morn the 

damp 
Of dew from their clothing in their 

camp 
By cheerful fires, and with pleasure 

looked 
On their ample breakfast as It 

cooked. 
Thus three days passed on their 

homeward ride, 
And they camped upon the riverside 
On the evening of the third day 
Under a hill that was just half way 
From their erstwhile campground up 

the stream, 
And they raised their lodge's green 

crossbeam 
Just as the darkness began to creep 
Up the rugged hillside tall and steep. 
They raised the lodge, for the 
weather's face 



13 



Wore a scowling, angry, dark grim- 
ace; 

Great, billowy clouds, in wierd un- 
rest, 

Chased across the sky in crazed be- 
hest, 

And lightnings scattered their zigzag 
light 

In wicked glee up and down the 
night; 

The earth beneath seemed to sob 
and moan, 

With once in a while a louder groan, 

And birds and animals seemed to 
feel 

A general dread upon them steal. 

The gray wolf snappingly made reply 

To the prowling panther's savage 
cry; 

Mournfully whistled the whip-poor- 
will, 

The screech-owl's note arose wild 
and shrill, 

The night wind sighed with reluctant 
ease 

Through the dark boughs of the for- 
est trees, 

While e'er and anon with sullen zest 

Deep thunders muttered far down 
the west. 

Soon a tornado in frenzy broke 

Like a creature of madness from 
Nature's yoke; 

The contending elements roared and 
clashed, 

The thunders bellowed, the light- 
nings flashed, 

And the angry winds with clammor 
tore 

The lodge to shreds, and, exultant, 
bore 

Away the treasured provisions 
gained, 

All the camp's effects, and then com- 
plained 

In loud-howling fury down the vale, 

Gradually dying in a wail; 

And then a smothering calm came 
down— 



14 



Like a sluggish, dreamless sleep 

came down! 

of strength, 
And the frightened braves, despoiled 
Prone on the ground cast themselves 

at length, 
To sleep away their terror and grief, 
For wildmen's troubles are mostly 

brief. 
It was the last sleep for all but one, 
For from the rise till the set of sun 
The sharp warcry of the fierce Paw- 
nees 
Would echo among the hills and 

trees, 
For a warband from the farther 

plains 
Had sworn to drink from the proud 

Sac's veins 
The blood that made them brave 

and strong 
And ever prompt to avenge a wrong. 
These, skulking in ambush close at 

hand, 
Like hungry wolves watched the lit- 
tle band, 
Till at a command, low-spoken, 

brief, 
From Scowling Bear, their ferocious 

chief, 
Each Pawnee moved forward with 

steps as light 
As the falling dew of the pulseless 

night. 
Slowly, stealthily, as creeps the 

snake, 
With scarce a weed moving in his 

wake, 
Crept each wild warrior up the glen, 
Each of the Pawnees' two hundred 

men; 
And as the stupor of restful sleep 
Held the doomed Sacs within Its 

keep, 
A warwhoop around about them 

broke 
That the very echoes of hell awoke 
With dread of its demoniac sound, 
And even shuddered the pulseless 

ground. 



1") 



In all the disorder of surprise 
The terrified Sacs awoke with cries 
Of inexpressible dread and rage, 
And grasped their weapons and be- 
gan to wage 
War to the death with the surging 

foes 
That like waves of devils fell and 

rose 
Bearing them down with the giant 

weight 
Of superior numbers to their fate; 
Like cats with mice, in this cruel 

raid, 
With their dazed victims the Paw- 
nees played, 
Permitting them to almost escape, 
Then flaying them until they would 

gape 
With anguish, and in the wretched 

throes 
Of madness would hurl upon their 

foes, 
In the fury of despair, the stones 
From the rough river side, and with 

groans, 
Shrieks and mutterings, would try 

to rush 
Through the jeering Pawnees to the 

brush, 
And in their bewildered, frenzied 

might, 
Felled many a Pawnee in the fight, 
Until in rage the Pawnee chief 
Ordered the Sacs shot, with the be- 
lief 
That in the excitement of the fray 
Some beleaguered Sac would get 

away. 
Then fell the sharp arrows like the 

rain 
Upon unprotected heart and brain, 
And the strong Sac hunters, one by 

one, 
Fell ere the setting of the sun. 
Fiercely they had struggled all the 

day 
Through the cruel torment of the 

fray. 
Did any escape? Was there not one? 



16 



Ah, yes! In the Wapsipinicon, 
Good stream, a warrior fell, 
Just as the Pawnees' clamorous yell 
Sang out the death of the hunting 

band 
On the Wapsi's rough and bloody 

strand. 
He swam to safety amid the rank, 
Tall rushes of the opposite bank, 
And sank to rest on the yielding 

mire, 
Nursing the while a warrior's ire. 
There he stayed until the shades of 

night 
Lent their still gloom to his home- 
ward flight; 
Down the shore he crept with bated 

breath, 
While the gaunt wolves on the scene 

of death 
Snarled among the stark dead and 

tore 
With hungry fangs at the flesh and 

gore. 
At length by the lapping waterside 
He saw where a small canoe was 

tied. 
A quick thought leaped to his throb- 
bing brain — 
In this canoe ere the night should 

wane 
He could with extra exerted force 
Be far away on his homeward 

course, 
And as he unloosed and stepped into 
The light-tipping, basketlike canoe, 
He heard the warsongs of the Paw- 
nees, 
Camped up the river among the 

trees. 
Heard! Ah, with venomed hatred 

heard! 
His soul was sick and his eyes were 

blurred 
From scenes of massacre and blood 
On the bank of good old Wapsi's 

flood. 
He made reply with the fierce war» 

whoop 



17 



Of the outraged Sacs, and with a 
swoop 

Of his tomahawk above his head, 

Vowed by the ghosts of the mangled 
dead 

Strewn through his ancestral woods, 
that he 

And his family and tribe should be 

Revenged for the life blood wanton- 
ly spilled 

By the war-fiends — for the brave 
men killed. 

The ripples danced in the pale moon- 
light 

On the storied river, and the night, 

Restful and calm as a summer's 
dream, 

Slumbered upon the whispering 
stream. 

Rapidly coursed the canoe along 

As he plied the paddle fast and 
strong. 

The twinkling eyes of the firmament 

Their countless glittering glances 
lent 

To cheer the brave hunter on his 
way 

To the camp of Puckawatama. 

Puckawatama, the warchief grave, 

Was stalwart, hardy, determined, 
brave, 

A warrior of experience, 

Versed in all the arts of quick de- 
fence, 

And in the strategies of attack — 

Woe to the foeman who crossed his 
track ! 

He heard the messenger's story 
through; 

His brow grew dark, and his tribe- 
men knew 

That a dreadful vengeance he would 
shed 

On every Pawnee's craven head; 

The medicine man forthwith he 
called, 

And gave the command to glean and 

Maid 

A largo supply of the strong smart- 
weed, 



18 



And bade his warriors prepare with 

speed 
To give their enemies rightful scath 
Mid the glories of the fierce warpth. 
Five hundred warriors, tried and 

true, 
To the warcall of their leader flew; 
Armed with tomahawk, bow and 

spear, 
Boldly they plunged into the wood- 
land drear, 
And 'neath the forest's sheltering 

arch, 
Though the days were hot, made a 

forced march, 
And reached the camp of the dark 

Pawnees 
On the second day, as the cool 

breeze 
Of the evening began to rise 
O'er the Wapsi's virgin paradise. 
Quietly creeping around the camp 
On the level greensward soft and 

damp, 
The Sacs closed in on their enemies, 
Pounced into their midst with an- 
gry cries, 
And soon had every Pawnee bound, 
Prone and struggling on the ground 
By command of Puckawatama; 
Now would he in sullen vengeance 

slay 
The brutes that had killed his brave 

young men? 
No! such slaughter was beyond his 

ken! 
He could spare their lives and better 

sate 
His utter vengeance and tribal hate. 
The medicine man his smartweed 

drug 
Had brought along In an earthen 

jug. 
This drug was sprayed Into the 

Pawnees' eyes, 
Causing them horrible agonies. 
When maddened with pain they were 

set free 
To blindly roam in their misery. 



19 



The Sacs to their towns returned 

again, 
As many as came, five hundred men. 
Never again were the Sacs distressed 
By Pawnee warbands from the west. 



gags nf %jax'S 

Down the peaceful happy, shore, 
Of the dreaming thoughts of yor% 
Through the olden, 
Aye, and golden, 
Recollections of the past, 

To-day my soul is roving— 
Eoving 'neath the rosy skies. 
Of those blissful memories — 

Beguiled in transport, moving 
Thro' the vaulted, vague and vast 
Region of youth's early bower, 
Baaking in its sun and shower. 
Bless the memory of those days, 
Bless their warm, recurring ray* 



^ast nxvA. Future 

How wo cherish the old treasures, 

How we dream of the old pleasures 
Of the golden happy days long gone; 

How we peer into the future — ! 

The grand mirage of the future!— \ 
For the treasures and pleasures com- 
ing on. 



^fllbxtt %tx sflJammg Said 

From "Josh's Questions." 

Did yew ever unexpected come back 

home tew stay a spell, 
And tew eat of mother's cookin' and 

tew see the folks, and — well, 
It sorty teched ye, didn't it, when yer 

mammy said, "My boy!" 
The tears a kindy shinin' in her eyes 

fer very joy? 



20 

bill's SrlrtroTma^m 

INTRODUCTION 

Bill was a diamond in the rough, 
Made of the proper kind of stuff, 
But lacked the lustre and the sheen 
That in the polished gem is seen. 
Absorbed he had been heretofore 
With work afield and barnyard 

chore; 
To plow and sow, to reap and mow, 
To plant things and see them grow, 
Not only grasses, corn and grain, 
But garden truck, and sugar cane, 
And every kind of vine and root, 
And trees for shade, or looks or 

fruit, 
To him were life and joy and pride 
Above all other things beside. 
The care of horses, cattle, swine, 
From common grades to breeding 

fine, 
And rural tasks of every kind, 
Day in, day out, engaged his mind; 
An occupation noble, good, 
And one that builds up hardihood, 
And makes man a manlier man, 
(Has done so since the world began), 
But if the worker in the fields 
Lacks culture that the schoolroom 

yields, 
Lacks mingling with his fellow men, 
His lonely, plodding toil will then 
Leave him without the grace he needs 
When lover's cause forsooth he 

pleads; 
Especially when Cupid's dart 
Has hit him squarely in the heart 
From eyes refined and smiles that 

twine 
Round lips of learned maiden fine. 
From circumstances when a lad, 
Bill's early education had 
Been spare indeed, and only such 
As gave to him the smallest clutch 
On ways polite and gentle speech, 
And left them mostly out of reach. 
But a new dawn upon him shone, 
A morning fair, with rare ozone 



21 



Refreshing all the atmosphere, 
And bringing new ambitions near 
To Bill, wide opening his eyes 
To scenes, as 't were, in paradise; 
For see! we here him amply tell 
His married sister, Anabel/ 
Who has just arrived by wheel and 

hoof 
For a visit 'neath the old home roof, 
His great love for the good and fair 
School teacher who has been boarding 

there. 

BILL'S EULOGY 
Sis, the nicest gal on the girth 
Of this great old whirlin' earth, 
Is Miss Van Dyke, 
And I jest feel manly like 
When she's around — 
Feel bound 

To brace up and strike out, 
Be somebody and rustle about! 
Why! though I didn't know the 

work, 
I run for town clerk, 
Jest to please her, and got elected, 
Which was more than I expected. 
Jim Moore 

Was the clerk before, 
And he could write 
Nuff sight 
Better'n me, 
But she 

Helped me with the books, 
So that their their gin'ral looks 
Was improved quite a bit, 
And Jim, he nigh had a fit. 

Sis, upon my word, 

She doesn't look stronger than a bird, 

And when she came to teach our 

school, 
One that bucked agin every rule, 
And had teachers round about 
All of 'em purty well scart out, 
Folks allowed 

That the rantankerous crowd 
Of urchins would play 
Havoc with her very first day; 



22 



But she didn't have no trouble, 
Though the attendance it was double. 
Y'see, the news had gotten out 
That her certif'cate was first-class, 
And they had come from far about, 
But every lad and lass, 
Even tough young Bud McBrewer, 
First thing sorty took right to her, 
And they're all a learnin' fast, 
Twict as much as in the past. 
Her strength lays in her heart, 
And in the edicatn' art 
She's jest invincible, 
For she know's every principle, 
Got them all into her head 
And knows how youngsters should 
be led. 

When she came here to board, I said, 

"Mother, I'll eat out in the shed; 

I'm too rough and humly 

To set at the table with so comely 

A little gal as that — 

I am, or I'll swaller my hat." 

But schoolma'am said she'd go, 

If I kept on actin' so, 

Which was the reason why, 

That, by and by, 

I brushed up slick and good, 

Combed my ha'r as fine's I could, 

And went in and set down to the 

table, 
And did the best that I was able 
To be jest right and proper, 
But I blushed as red as copper, 
While the blood it pricked and ting- 
led in my skelp, 
The which I couldn't help; 
But I soon forgot my fright, 
She was so amiable and perlite, 
And we got acquainted right away, 
Thar, actually, or I'll eat hay. 

Friday nights I took her home, 
Down the river road, by Eagle Dome, 
And Monday mornin's brought her 

back, 
With sorrel geldin's, that have paced 

the track, 
And can take buggy or cutter over 



23 



the road 
In a three minute clip, with two for 

a load. 
When other company wasn't here, 
We've read and visited under tho 

cheer 
Of the hangin' lamp in the settin' 

room, 
Night after night, in the winter time, 
Till the hall clock struck the mid- 
night chime — ■ 
I could stay with her there till the 

day of doom! 
Many's the things I've learnt of her, 
Of people and countries near and fer; 
Many of the stars I know by name, 
And nigh every animal, wild and tame 
And of plants, insects, and microbes, 

too, 
A thousand and one things I never 

knew, 
Till she, bless her heart, came here 

to board; 
But Sis, old pard, I'll jest be floored 
If even she can help me out 
In the awful grammar you know 

about; 
And in manners grand, and etti- 

quette, 
Things like them, I hain't got 'em 

yet. 

Is she purty? Well, I should say! 

Purty as the break of day! 

Why, her hands is jest like lillies, 

and her eyes, 
They are pictures from the skies — 
And them teeth! 

You should see 'em shine beneath 
Her lips, when they're slightly part- 
ed, 
Jest when a smile has started 
On that face that Heaven lent her, 
Face fashioned by some inventer 
'Mong God's angels up above — 
W'y Sis, 'twould make you love 
Every inch of her. 'Mazin' grace! 
But she has the sweetest face 
Ever I see; 
Hear me? 



24 



And them little feet of her'n, 

They jest make me yearn 

To hold 'em in my hands, 

They are so cunnin* — 

Joshua! but they are stunnin'! 

Don't see how she stands 

So handy 

On sich dainty bits of candy 

As them feet! 

Is she neat 

Bless you, yes! j .-•. 

And the bewitchin'est dress 

That ever was, she wore 

Last Sunday; you'd a swore 

That she jest floated like a fay 

In it, 'stead of walkin'; it's a way 

She has that makes her seem 

Like somethin' seen in a dream 

One has had, but don't jest recollect, 

'Cept the lingerin* nice effect. 

Job and Moses! 

She jest moves in flounces, lace and 

roses, 
Like they was air and she a spirit — 
I can't describe it nor come near it. 

And grit! 

Say I haven't told you yit, 
Bless her soul! 

How she pulled me from the hole 
Down in "Wolf Creek pond last winter; 
Sis, I can't begin ter 
Tell in a likely way about it, 
But mustn't 'tempt to pass without it. 
We'd been out fer a skate, 
And 'twas gittin 'kindy late, 
For the supper bell had rung, 
And our skates jest sung 
As we came around the bend 
Down at the end 
Of Catamount Holler, when zip! 
I made a slip, 
Somehow, and like a chunk 
Came down kerplunk 
Whar the ice was thin, 
And it broke and let us In. 
I tell you it wasn't no joke a goin' 
under, 



25 



And the broken ice a punchin' 

And a munchin' and a crunchin' 

In the water, makin' thunder 

Round our ears! 

Fears? 

I had a thousand, but they was for 

for the girl, 
And when we went down in the 

whirl, 
Thinks I 
She '11 die 
In this awful muss, 
But no use to make a fuss, 
And when we arose, 
Soaked, chokin' and almost froze, 
I jest grabbed her to my breast, 
And did my level best 
To help her out onto safe ice, 
Which I did, soon and nice; 
But the effort made me sink, 
And when agin I heard the clink 
Of the ice above my head, 
I said, Bill, this time You're dead; 
But once more I riz up to the top 
And managed thar to stop, 
But I couldn't get no hold 
On the ice, I was so cold. 
I was so numb and weak 
That I could'nt hardly speak, 
But I managed some how thar 
To ask the gal to say a prar, 
For she's a prime Christian, if I do 

say, 
And a ust to prayin' — every day; 
But in the Bible she had read 
That faith without works is dead, 
And afore I knew what she was 

doin', 
'Stid o' screamin' or boohooin' 
As some would've done, 
She took a little run, 
And yanked a rail from the fence, 
And with stiddy common sence, 
Hooked the end that had the nail 
Firmly onto my coattail, 
Braced with her skate heels in the 

ice, 
Pulled, and in a trice 
I was out, 



26 



On my feet, 

Slick and neat, 

Both of us enroute 

For the house, 

Soaked and drippin* from the douse. 

Wish I was handsome and a scholar; 

I'd give every dollar 

I've got, 

On the spot, 

If I wan't so rough, 

Mainly, 

And ungainly; 

If I was refined enough 

I could talk to Miss Van Dyke 

Handy like 

'Bout the angels and sich things, 

'Bout fairies and their golden wings, 

'Bout the moon and glowin' sunsets, 

and, 
Silver clouds and mountains grand, 
And flowery dells and shady nooks, 
And all the purty things that poets 

tell of in their books. 
Stid of bein' a bashful dunce, 
I'd go at once, 

And in the eloquentest purty talk, 
Without a balk, 
I'd explain how I feel, 
Bring it woe or bring it weal. 

But you and me, 

Y'see, 

Didn't have the chance some has had, 

For when you was a slight miss and 

me a lad, 
You know how father died, 
And how we tried 
To help mother lift the mortgage 

from the farm, 
And keep the younger ones from 

harm, 
And how the mortgage it was paid 
From the money that we made, 
Workin', stayin' home from school, 
But makin' it the rule 
That the little tads must go; 
Now Dick and Joe 
Are both at the varsity 
Makin' up for the scarcity 



27 



Of learnin' in the family group, 
And may they never have to stoop, 
But keep a goin' up and up, 
Till they can drink from Learnin's 
highest cup. 

I'm proud of them boys! 

They're no toys, 

But strong limbed, stiddy headed. 

big hearted 
Lads, and I'm glad we started 
Them as we did. Mother is so 

proud 
That she has many times allowed 
That father couldn't have done bet- 
ter 
By 'em anyhow, 
Even if he'd lived till now, 
For we've carried out the letter 
Of his wishes as he told 'em fore he 

died. 
Now thar's 'nough for mother and 

plenty to divide, 
And, Sis, I've jest a notion to 
Leave the farm with Uncle Lou, 
Take a little breathin' spell, 
And jump into learnin' — pell mell! 
Sis, tain't too late, 
Is it, at the age of twenty-eight? 

"Wish Miss Van Dyke could love me, 

But she kindy feels above me, 

Bein' learned and refined — 

Say! Sis, it's an awful grind 

To be ignorant and awkard, and to 

know 
That one's drawbacks they all show 
When one gits into a crowd 
Where the people they are proud 
Of their wealth, fine clothes, their 

handy talk, 
And easy manners, without a balk. 
But I'm bound 

To quit a crawlin' on the ground, 
So to speak, 

And I'm a goin' next week 
Away to school, to study up a little, 
And if I can whittle 
Away at books with good success, 
I guess 



I'll study to be a doctor, or a — 

preacher, 
For I'm a goin to reach, her, 
I vum! jest as sure as never fail — 
If I have to go through Yale. 

THE HAPPY OUTCOME 

Somebody in the hammock swung, 
Outside the window, where it hung 
Beneath the maple's dappled shade, 
And every jesture that Bill made 
Was seen by her, and every word 
He spoke, with raptured heart she 

heard. 
A noble little women she, 
Who entered in right heartily 
To William's plans to drill his mind, 
And higher fields in life to find, 
But, ah! she was a pilot, too, 
A wiser one than me or you. 
She safely steered him past the 

shoals 
Where wrecked have been ten thous- 
and souls 
Who yearned to wear a cleric's 

gown, 
Or lead the medics of the town, 
Or be admitted to the bar, 
Or musically pose, a star; 
Professions that are overdone, 
Aspired to by every one, 
Or there about, who strives to climb 
Atop of learned heights sublime. 
A farmer he, already skilled, 
Foundation good on which to build 
An education high and grand, 
Much needed in this granger land. 

Why spoil a farmer true and sound, 
Possessing knowledge only found 
In contact with the simple life, 
By crowding him into the strife 
Ignoble that abounds among 
M. D.'s and Clergy, old and young? 
So Miss "Van Dyke and Dick and Joe 
Persuaded Bill straightway to go 
To a school of agriculture that 



29 



Would put him where he should he 

at; 
And after study, long and deep, 
And scientific stunt a heap 
Experiments in fields and stalls, 
And four long years in learning's 

halls, 
Some travel and experience 
That you and I would call immense, 
Friend William he became renown- 
ed, 
The very best that could be found, 
In scientific husbandry, 
Adept and capable, you see. 
His services are in demand 
All over our beloved land, 
E'en to the islands of the sea, 
As expert in agronomy, 
And all its allied sciences, 
And their varied appliances. 
We call him now "Professor Bill," 
And cheer him with a hearty will; 
He has an angel at his side — 
The little schoolma'am is his bride. 



3Ug HmTrtzA Falter 

From "Josh's Questions." 

Did yew ever at the depot look around 

with homesick twang 
A "pickin' at yer heartstrings, no one 

thar t' meet ye? — bang! 
A slap upon yer shoulder nearly bruk 

yer shoulder blade! 
Yew looked up, and it was father, 

come with "Doll" and "Sorrel Maid." 

And the old man, not much at talkin', 

grasped yew warmly by the hand, 
So glad tew see ye he forgot the words 

of welcome he had planned, 
And in a ketchy voice said only, as he 

helped ye o'er the wheel, 
"Ma jest dotes on your home comin', 

ah, how good it makes her feell" 



80 



Farmer %mxt& nni th* 
(Exrottirg griitur 

Wife and me — her name is Sarah — 
We live jest out on North Pa-rairie, 
On the purtiest quarter section 
That ever showed a green complexion 
When the skies of June was open 
And the winds of spring was lopin' 
Over medder, glebe and field, 
Prophesyin' of the yield 
Soon tew come in plenitude 
Of succulant and gracious food; 
On the purtiest lay of land 
That ever showed a golden stand 
Of grain jest ripe and fit fur cuttin' — 
That farm, sir, it jest takes the mutton. 

We lived there fur twenty year, 
It was that or mighty near, 
Afore we paid any 'tention 
That is suitable fur mention 
'Bout takin' of the hum newspaper; 
I say, sir, 'twant the proper caper, 
But many folks dew jest the same, 
Borrowin' papers is their game; 
No boosters, they, by the eternal! 
Them that borrows the local journal— 
I see it now plain as a mountain, 
And it goes without the countin'. 

Wife and me we started small, 

We didn't have nothin' at all, 

When we j'ned hands, so we fell tew 

skimpin', 
And got along kindy lame and limpin', 
And kindy got intew the habit 
When we could git a thing tew grab it, 
Until by savin' and by schemin' 
We fetched tewgether a beseemin' 
Comf 'table little livin', 
Always gettin', never givin', 
'Cept tew send our boys tew college 
Fur tew brush 'em up in knowledge, 
And our gal, Almeda (bless her heart!), 
She was expensive from the start: 
But that don't count, we must allow, 
Fur they was ours anyhow. 



^Boof? J\arg J 



SUMNER BOOSTER JINGLES 



By Homer P. Branch 

There's pleasure in the air 
For summer days are fair 

In Sumner, 
And maidens' hearts are true, 
If their eyes be dark or blue, — 
Tis the place for me and you, 

In Sumner. 

You will find a busy place 
With content on every face, 

In Sumner; 
Here with welcome you are met, 
Here prosperity you get — 
You will like it in "our set," 

In Sumner. 

You see fairy gardens bloom 
And inhale their sweet perfume 

In Sumner; 
Here the streets are always clean, 
Here the folks are never mean, 
And ugly women are not seen 

In Sumner. 



We tender you a health resort, 
One of the right kind of sort, 

In Sumner; 
You get the peachbloom on your cheek, 
And sprightly grow from week to week, 
We have the spot for which you seek, 

In Sumner. 

Now, listen, folks! here is, forsooth, 
The long, long sought for fonnt of youth, 

In Sumner; 
The waters from our deep town well 
Make grandpa prance like a gazelle 
And grandma look like a village belle, 

In Sumner. 

Supplement to 

"Stories in Rhyme by Uncle Ho." 

1912 



^o^J^J 



IOWA BOOSTER JINGLES 



By Homer P. Branch 



Seek ye the fabled fount of youth? 
We have it here, right sure, forsooth. 

In Iowa; 
Just start the windmill, use the pump, 
Drink, and your pulse begins to jump; 
Old and lean grow young and plump, 

In Iowa. 

This is the land of corn and wine! 
I tell you what! we're feeling fine 

In Iowa; 
We raise the bumpest bumper oats, 
The sleekest steers, the fattest shoats, 
And find it easy to pay notes 
In Iowa. 

Seek ye the "star of empire," dear? 
Seek no farther — it is here, 

In Iowa; 
Our educators top the stack. 
Our politicians leal the pack, 
We forge ahead, we have the knack, 

In Iowa. 

"Where are the fairest of the fair?" 
Why do you ask? They're everywhere, 

In Iowa; 
You have to shut your heart up tight, 
Just keep it boxed up day and night, 
Or lose it to come fairy wight, 

In Iowa. 

Would you like to gaze on Paradise? 
Then, look around! Just use your eyes, 

In Iowa; 
Our fields abound with stacks of gold, 
Our hillsides gleam with wealth untold, 
Gardens of Eden here unfold, 

In Iowa. 

Supplement to 

"Stories in Rhyme by Uncle Ho.'" 

1912 



31 



We bought more land from time tew 

time, 
And I was feelin' peert, sublime, 
And one day in divine September 
I thought I'd like tew be a member 
Of the Board of County Dads, sir, 
And thought the office could be had, sir, 
Fur I felt jest a little weighty 
As I'd jest bought another eighty. 
I didn't like the way things run, 
Thought they could be better done, 
Tho't things looked somewhat alarmin' 
Fur poor fellers that was farmin', 
Fur the taxes they was high, 
And the Board didn't seem to try 
Tew reduce 'em much of any. 
Well, I thought I'd be one tew many 
Fur the trickin' county ring, 
So I took a little swing 
Out among the politicians 
Airin' of my new ambitions. 
Without a thought of circumvention 
I 'nounced myself fer the convention, 
And in the paper I expected 
Tew see my good p'ints all reflected 
In a editorial lengthy, 
Praisin' of me full and strengthy; 
But, by gum! it made me mad 
Tew see what that dumb paper had: 
It jest said that "Jones the miser 
He wants tew run fur supervisor." 

I jumped intew my one horse wagon, 
And yew bet, there was no laggin' 
On the road. We went a pumpin' 
I kept the old grey mare a jumpin', 
And drove right tew the printer's place, 
Swearin' that I would punch his face. 

There set the editor a writin'— 
U-g-m! it jest made me feel like fightin'! 
And says I: "Yew rank old carkas, 
Yew scalawag, you bleatin' Barkis, 
What dew yew mean by this here item? 
Yew don't know beans, not when yew 
sight 'em'." 

He didn't act as I expected, 

He jest looked cool, calm, and collected, 

And asked mo perlitely tew be seated, 



32 



Jest as if that I had greeted 

Him with good day, or howdydew, sir, 

Instid of actin' like a bruiser. 

But jest then in bounced a happy 
Bright young woman, who asked the 

chappy 
In the sweetest elocution 
Fur a little contribution 
Fur a poor family in distress; 
I thought of five cents, that or less, 
But, by Goliah's big brass collar, 
That chap he handed out a dollar! 
More'n I had gi'n in all my life, 
Fact, sir 'twas more'n me and wife 
Had both together gi'n the needy, 
We had been so tarnal greedy; 
I felt as small as new pertaters, 
Or little runty green termaters. 

Then came my neighbors, Smith and 

Johnson 
And my nephew, Billy Bronson, 
Tew pay up their subscription, 
And they most had a conniption 
Tellin' how they liked the journal, 
Sayin' it was jest supernal, 
Full of news, right tew the p'int, 
Complete and seldom out of ji'nt. 

An old man, kind faced and grey headed, 
Whose winsome daughter had jest been 

wedded, 
Called and thanked that Mister Printer — 
Well, sir, fact, sir, I can't begin ter 
Tell how nice that old man talked 
As around the floor he walked, 
Thankin' the scribbler good and fittin' 
Fur the fine piece that he had written. 

Well, then a man cameain^with copy 
Fur an advertisement big and whoppy, 
Said he wanted half a page, 
And wanted said space to engage 
Fur sixgmonths and maybe more 
Fur his double-breasted store; 
And he said he laid his risin' 
In the world tew advertisin' — 
Said ho oouldn't thrive without it, 
And that was all there was about it, 



Then in rushed a flock of childr'n, 
Noisy, jolly and bewild'r'n', 
With a big bouquet of roses, 
Smellin' it with their little noses, 
And after the editor had 'risen 
To greet 'em, they told him itwashis'n; 
He said a kiss must be the pay, 
And they run laughin'ly away. 

Then he turned tew talk tew me, 

But in walked a commit-tee, 

Of merchants, bankers, money loaners. 

Labor in' fellers and property owners, 

Tew git the editor tew agree 

Tew dew a little puffin' (free) 

'Bout a new factory tew be started. 

And he j'ined in with a good hearted 

Ready will that was elatin, ' 

And they went on without abatin', 

Talkin' up the shapes and sizes 

Of all sorts of enterprises, 

And all j'ined in the same conclusion 

That advertisin' was no delusion; 

That the paper had helped the town, 

All around and up and down, 

They talked there fur half an hour 

'Bout the newspaper and the power 

Of good that it was always doin, ' 

Say in' that utter blank and ruin, 

Beyend all hopes fur tew repair, 

Would befall if it wan't there. 

Next tew come in was a good lookin' 

Sweet-faced woman, with a book in 

Her hand — it was a Bible — 

A little red-bound, thumb- worn Bible! 

She opened tew a blank leaf fair, 

With childish comments written there. 

He read, and tears came in his eyes, sir: 

"I love this book, it makes me wiser, 

I also love our local paper 

May be better," signed "Lilly Draper." 

Since writtin' that the child had died, 

Had gone over on the other side; 

Of the earthly ties now broken, 

The editor had spoken 

In the warmest hearted words, sir, 

That anybody ever heard, sir, 

And of her winsome girlhood graces, 

And of tho love that interlaced 

Earthly hocrts with those up yonder 



36 



Neighbors that we long had slighted, 
And many's the wrong that we have 

righted. 
Folks quit callin' of me a miser, 
And now I'm County Supervisor, 
And the editor he's our frien' sir, 
He is one of the best of men, sir, 
When you come to know him well, 
Though at his work, goin' pell mell, 
Hewin' right straight close tew the line, 
He is apt to make yew whine 
When a big chip of truthful blame 
Flies and hits yew where yew 're lame. 

Like others he may have his failin's, 
But don't yew try to give him whailin's; 
If yew want to win him over, 
Turn him loose into the clover 
Of your good and kindly graces 
And yew will taste him in the places 
Where he is jest as sweet and meller, 
Fact, sir, as any other feller. 



%inti Harris 

An angel-serenade 

To hearts that are broken 
Is" the gentle love-raid 

Of words kindly spoken. 



is ^Hxrritr 

From "Josh's Questions." 

Did yew everypass^the schewl house 

jest as schewl was out, ye know, 
Take the schewlma'am in yer buggy, 

and then let "Old Fanny" go, 
And drive four miles while talkin' tew 

the best schewlma'am on earth 
'Fore yew druv back tew where she 

boarded? Then yew know what lifo 
is worth. 



- 



8T 

'Vxmx'xz Htfiurr nf itiE Vznxus 

On the prairies of the sunset, 
By a clear and sparkling river, 
By the River of Big Fishes, 
Little Sioux, the white men named 

it, 
Lived the maiden, Prairie Flower, 
In the lodge of Beak, her father, 
In the old chief, Grey Wolf's village, 
Long before the paleface trespassed 
On the virgin western prairies. 

Eyes that twinkled like the star- 
beams, 
Tresses black and silken, flowing 
Like the drooping wings of angels, 
Fingers like the touch of morning 
As it lifts the waking eyelids, 
Feet that trod the velvet grasses 
Like the breathing of a spirit, 
Voice as sweet and softly charming 
As the birdnotes of the daybreak; 
Thus was blessed the good Beak's 

daughter, 
And her features and her figure 
Were so comely that the Poncas 
Fondly named her Prairie Flower. 
Loved was she by all the people, 
Young and old, both male and fe- 
male, 
Warriors grave and prattling child- 
ren, 
And she loved the world she lived in, 
Loved her kindred and her neigh- 
bors, 
Loved the broad and pretty prairies, 
Loved the wigwams of her village, 
Loved the sky that hung above her, 
Loved the daylight and the darkness, 
All the wild delights she noted, 
Pets to her all beasts and birds were; 
And the "ha ha" of the river 
As it babbled o'er the ripples, 
And the note of lonely plover, 
Nervous yelping of the gray wolf 
Solitary in the distance, 
And the night-hawk's plaintive 

whistle, 
Gutt'ral call of lonesome ground owl 



88 



Answered faintly by the echoes, 
And the trebble of the frog notes, 
And their tenor, bass and alto, 
Coming from the sloughs and river, 
Were to her a pleasant chorus, 
Filling every night with music. 

Let us look now for a moment 
At the country of the Poncas; 
Let us look upon the beauty 
Of the land of Prairie Flower. 
Broad and rolling was the prairie, 
Green it was in happy June time, 
Smiling 'neath the summer sun- 
beams. 
On the mounds and sloping hill- 
sides, 
On the levels and the ridges, 
Roamed antelope and wild horses, 
Roamed the buffalo and roebuck, 
And big deer with spreading ant- 
lers, 
Grazing all the joyous summer. 

On the uplands in the morning 
Crowed the strutting prairie roost- 
er, 
Proudly crowed and musically, 
Underneath the blue joint grasses 
On mounds built by pocket gophers, 
And the hens and younger chickens 
Looked with pride upon his glory. 

Roamed the large game o'er the 

prairie, 
Unmolested by the Indians, 
Only when for food they hunted 
For the frigid days of winter, 
As they lived on small game mostly, 
In the hot months of the summer, 
When venison and beef would sour 
If at once they were not eaten; 
And the small game, which was 

plenty, 
Could be taken just as needed. 
Here and there a slough pond nes- 
tled, 
Where the muskrat, coy and simple, 
Built his house of reeds and rushes, 
Shapen like a haycock built it, 
With its base down in the water, 



30 



And its rounded top erected 
With a snug nest fixed within it, 
Just a step up from the water. 
Some ponds, larger than the others, 
Had an open space of water 
In the center where the rushes 
Could not grow in the deep water, 
Where the mallard, teal and whistler 
Passed the days in constant swim- 
ming, 
Catching frogs, tadpoles and min- 
nows, 
Now and then on sweetflag dining; 
And the snipe and plover waded 
In the shallows of these duck ponds 
Where the moss and water grasses 
Made the footing soft and springy. 
Through a bottom wide and level 
In a winding course the river 
Laughed and prattled over rapids; 
Here and there in pools it rested, 
Where a sharp bend, called a pocket, 
Checked the water's onward prog- 
ress, 
Or where beaver had cut willows 
From the river's willowed margin 
And dammed up the rushing water, 
So their little ones could paddle 
Without danger from the current. 
In the freshet flow of springtime, 
In the time of the high water, 
Came the muskalunge and catfish, 
Came the buffalo and sturgeon, 
And the bass and pike and redhorse, 
From the great Missouri river, 
From the turbulent Big Muddy, 
Seeking in great schools the shal- 
lows 
Of the brooklike upper waters, 
Ere the spawning season opened, 
And were captured in great numbers 
As they struggled up the rapids. 

Mink and otter, ducks and wild 

geese, 
Game of water, birds of passage, 
Nested there in great profusion, 
So that feathers, meat and peltries 
Of the finer sorts were plenty, 
Making all the Poncas happy. 



40 



On the prairie's round abutment, 
Which walled in the river bottom 
With a line abrupt, distinctive, 
Boldly marking upland edges, 
Groves of poplar and of basswood 
Could be seen occasionally, 
Saved by some good freak of nature 
From the yearly prairie fires — 
Camping places goodly sheltered 
From the biting winds of winter 
And the fierce sunrays of summer. 
Like a harmony of nature 
Was the undulating prairie, 
Reaching off to kiss the mirage 
Of the glimmering horizon, 
And the simple, rugged Poncas, 
Without luxuries or riches, 
Without statesmanship or logic, 
Lived in tribal peace and plenty, 
Thankful to the Ghost of Heaven. 

All were happy but Big Antlers, 
Gray Wolf's son, pride of the Pon- 
cas. 
Antlers loved the Prairie Flower, 
But he awkward was before her, 
Awkward was before all women, 
And he moaned about his passion, 
Had the will but not the courage 
To propose to Prairie Flower, 
Brooding o'er his love in silence. 
Could a woman with such graces 
That the chiefs of other nations 
Came to look upon her beauty, 
Love an awkward man like Antlers? 
Could a girl like Prairie Flower, 
With a voice like unto angels, 
And a tender ear for music, 
And a heart that made a playmate 
Of every helpless little creature, 
Love a rough man like Big Antlers? 
Ah, but no one knows a woman, 
With herself she's not acquainted; 
Long the dainty Prairie Flower 
Had admired awkward Antlers, 
But she neither spoke nor looked it, 
And he daily went despairing, 
Until the Omahas one day 
Appeared near unto the village, 
With a warwhoop and a challenge 



i 



41 



That sent the old war blood to 

coursing 
Through the veins of every Ponca. 
Rushed the braves unto their weap- 
ons, 
Donned their warpaint and their 

feathers, 
And by brave Big Antlers headed 
Were about to meet the foemen, 
When Big Antlers, in his war dress, 
Felt a slight form clinging to him, 
Heard a sweet-toned voice implor- 
ing 
That he rush not into danger — 
'Twas the form of his sweet angel, 
'Twas the voice of Prairie Flower. 
Proud and happy was Big Antlers, 
And with words assuring left her 
And led out the Ponca forces; 
With strong heart he charged the 

foemen 
Who had come to cause disturbance 
And bring sorrow to his village. 
Fled the Omahas before him 
He came at them with such ardor, 
And the victory completed, 
Back came Antlers and his brave 

men. 
All his awkwardness had left him, 
And he made the maiden happy, 
And himself made happy also, 
On the prairies of the sunset, 
By the River of Big Fishes, 
By the clear and sparkling river, 
Little Sioux, pale faces call it. 



^CXXtett &bx SwiBBtlg Said 
"(Emrce in" 

From "Josh's Questions." 

Did yew ever meet yer sweetheart on 

the farmhouse steps, as she 
Came out a smilin', anxious like, yet a 

little bashfully, 
And yew follered, heart a thumpin', as 

she sweetly said, "Come in;" 
V. r hile her mammy spoke a welcome, 

and her daddy shuk yer fln? 



42 

%u%\Cs ©Id Oaken Sam buck 

How frought with dear scenes are 

the days of my childhood 
When memory's phantom brings 

them in to view, 
The swim hole and fish pond away 

down in the wildwood, 
Resortin' tew which I ne'er could 

eschew; 
The wide-spreadin' green where we 

pastured Old Brindle, 
Our kind-eye old bossie, whose milk 

was as sweet 
As the thoughts that a fellow's first 

love letters kindle; 
But tew offset said charms was that 

awful old cheat, 
Our old oaken sawbuck, our rickety 

sawbusk, 
Our X Y Z sawbuck, with its loose, 

wabbly feet. 

That battle-scarred relic I hailed 

with displeasure 
When grieved tew the heart I was 

called from my play 
Tew contend with the woodpile's 

hard high-corded treasure, 
At morning, at night, in the heat of 

the day, 
Or when in the winter the wild- 
roaring blizzard 
Sawed away at the air in demoniac 

glee, 
Then I got — 'tis no dream — just as 

mad as a lizzard, 
And in angry rebellion I wanted tew 

flee 
From that old oaken sawbuck, that 

rickety sawbuck, 
That X Y Z sawbuck, yew bet, yes- 

sir-ree! 

I fondly remember when I was a 

youngster 
How I loved tew go down tew the 

old poplar grove 
And visit Dame Nature, dear heart, 

there amongst her 



43 



Wild flowers and vines and around 

there to rove 
With chipmunks and squirrels and 

other wee creatures, 
Until I was called tew the woodpile 

again, 
That bane of my childhood's else- 
wise happy features, 
With its sawbuck that filled my 

young life with pain; 
The old oaken sawbuck, the rickety 

sawbuck, 
The X Y Z sawbuck that made me 

complain. 

In those boyhood days I used tew 

play marbles, 
Gather in draggon flies and other 

bugs, 
And whistle like skylark that joyous- 
ly warbles 
As its small heart into the heaven it 

lugs; 
I used tew climb trees, and ride the 

grey pony, 
And wade in the streamlet that 

flowed from the spring, 
And clamber the hillsides with Billy, 

my crony, 
Until choretime, which ever was 

sure to bring 
The old oaken sawbuck, the rickety 

sawbuck, 
The X Y Z sawbuck, which was still 

in the ring. 

That sawbuck stands out like an aw- 
ful excrescence 
From the frolics and joys of my 

sweet boyhood days, 
For right in the midst of the grand 

efflorescence 
Of memories happy like a griffin it 

stays, 
For whether I played with the boys 

at a neighbors', 
Or with the wee girlies coquetted 

awhile, 
I was called back, O sure, tew my 

onerous labors 



44 



With the dull ax and saw on that 

hated woodpile, 
And the old oaken sawbuck, the 

rickety sawbuck, 
The X Y Z sawbuck that filled me 

with guile. 

Since those days of old I've toiled 
and I've wandered, 

Been in beautiful places and some 
that were drear, 

Have earned lots of cash and con- 
sid'able of it squandered, 

Dewrin' my tame, uneventful career; 

But whether in woodland or out on 
the prairie, 

Whether up north or in warm south- 
ern clime, 

In the land of the canebrake or the 
buffalo berry, 

In a region of swamps or in lands 
dry as lime, 

The old oaken sawbuck, the rickety 
sawbuck, 

The X Y Z sawbuck, it was there ev- 
ery time. 

Yes, dear tew my heart are the days 

of my childhood, 
As they sometimes saunter around 

in tew view, 
With their jam and preserves made 

of fruit from the wildwood — 
And the cookies and doughnuts my 

infancy knew — 
But my! oh my! can't I ever forget 

it? 
The wretched old sawbuck, always 

out of repair, 
Still in fancy appears just where I 

first met it, 
And when in my dreams I have the 

nightmare, 
Old oaken sawbucks, old rickety 

sawbucks, 
Old X Y Z sawbucks, loom up every- 
where! 



46 

^g yitt* TOrpsiz's Stxtum 

They may talk about great mountains, 

capped with eternal snows, 
About fair southern valleys, where the 

sweet magnolia grows, 
Niagara Falls, and Mammoth Cave, or 

rapids, lakes aud seas, 
About cold Arctic splendors, or the 

California breeze, 
But give me a day of leisure, and a 

chance to stroll and dream 
In peerless, grand old Iowa, by Little 

Wapsie's Stream. 

The world is full of beauty and I've 

often wished to stand 
By Afric's golden river or on India's 

coral strand, 
Or see old France or Italy, or climb the 

Matterhorn, 
Or walk the streets of Bethlehem where 

the Son of Man was born, 
But to travel is denied me — yet I can 

stroll and dream 
'Neath the blue sides of Iowa, by Little 

Wapsie's Stream. 

There's nothing quite so pretty as the 

beauty that one sees 
When the blossoms hang in glory on 

the wild crabapple trees, 
Or the goldenrod glows richly from the 

banks along the road. 
Or the cornfields are in tassel, or the 

meadows being mowed, 
Or when startled bob-whites fly up 

from the pathway's sunny gleam, 
In summer-sweetened Iowa, by Little 

Wapsio's Stream. 

They may talk about the moonlight on 

the ocean wild and deep, 
Or about the gentle breezes that 

through the pine woods creep, 
But for mo the cauipfire's comfort, 

where the embors, glowing red, 
Now and then send stray sparks upward 

through the oak boughs overhead, j 
And the darkness settles round about* 



46 



and quiet reigns supreme 
Beneath the dappled, moonlit clouds, by 
Little Wapsie's Stream. 

For me a tent or wigwam on a hot night 
in July 

Or a "sleep" out in the open, under- 
neath the summer sky, 

With the hoot-owl scolding sleepily the 
saucy whippoorwill, 

And a loan wolf, far out, howling, now, 
and then, until 

Silence comes, and wrapped in thought 
I fall asleep and dream 

Of shadows, stars, and wild wood sounds 
by Little Wapsie's Stream. 

For me a story telling group around 

the campfire's glow, 
With tales of prowess, fairy lore, Indian 

fights, and so, 
And recollections of the past, and frolics 

of the young, 
With here and there a pun or joke just 

at the right time sprung, 
Till time to "turn in," or to sleep in 

open air, and dream 
The jolly stories o'er again, by Little 

Wapsie's Stream. 

For me, the chipmunk's caper and the 

twitter of the birds, 
And the tinkle of the cowbells out 

among the pasture herds, 
And the rustle of the maple leaves 

atremhle overhead, 
And the murmur of the ripples in the 

narrow river bed, 
Sunlight dimpling through the elms 

like pictures in a dream, 
And over all the clear blue sky, by 

Little Wapsie's Stream. 

For me a picnic in the woods beneath 

the grateful shade, 
With luncheon, good and ample, spread 

out upon the glade, 
And, round about, a bunch of romping, 

shouting girls and boys, 
And lovers passing to and fro, eyes 

speaking untold joys, 



47 



And elders talking cheerily on every 

sort of theme, 
In glorious old Iowa, by Littlo Wapsio's 

Stream. 

Many a romance has sprung from Little 

Wapsie's shade, 
Many a stalwart swain has won the 

love of winsome maid, 
Many a winsome maid has snared the 

heart of stalwart swain, 
"While strolling down the woodland 

paths where flowers and wildbirds 

reign. 
These kindred souls, where'er they be, 

O how they fondly dream 
Of happy days in Iowa, by Littlo 

Wapsie's Stream. 

Did you ever take a plunge bath in the 

sand- rimmed swimming hole? 
Did you ever wade the shallows, filled 

with glee your boyish soul? 
Did you ever cast a hook and line for 

bullhead or for pike, 
From bridge or bank or bar or stump? 

Ah, it was something like! 
Now wasn't it? Ah, something like! 

And don't you sometimes dream 
Of those golden days in Iowa, by Little 

Wapsie's Stream? 

Did you ever gather hickory nuts or 

hunt the cotton-tail, 
Dig for woodchucks, climb for squirrels, 

or scare the timid quail, 
Drown out gophers, or get lost, when 

but a half grown lad? 
Did you explore the underbush, and 

scamper free and glad 
Along the cowpaths through the woods, 

and look and think and dream 
Such dreams as boyhood only can, by 

Littlo Wapsie's stream? 

Then I envy you your memories, for I 

have only seen 
The sylvan beauty thereabout, the gold, 

the red and green 
The groves and pools, the sward, the 

banks, through eyes of the adults 



JAN 3 1913 



48 



With less" than half the pleasure that to 

youthtide would result; 
But ne'ertheless, my hearty, I can stroll 

down there and dream 
A poet's dream in Iowa, by Little 

Wapsio'a stream. 



Ws TOW Hb Hfe 

I maintain as a nil© 
Man's a fool; 
Always in a stew and fret, 
When it's dry he wants it wet, 
When it's wet he wants it dry, 
Setting up a big ki-yi; 

When it's hot he wants it cool. 
When it's cool he wants it hot, 
Always wanting what it is not; 

I maintain as a nils, 
Man's a fooL 



O when we are picnickin', '.••/• 

Tis joy to hear, 

The right good cheer 
Of knives and forks a khckin' 
Mongst pies and cakes and chicken. 



Love Is a sweet and radiant flower 
That holds our senses for many an houx 
Enthralled within its bewitching power. 



^tckitt' (terries 

From "Josh's Questions." 

Did yew ever play at forfeits at a party 

out of town, 
Fire crackin' in the wood stove, outside 

snow a comin' down. 
And yew paid yer forfeit, blushin', 

"pickin' cherries" with a girl 
That was so tarnal pretty that she set 

yer heart awhirl? 



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"UNCLE HO" 

HOMER P. Jl RANCH, Sumner, Iowa 
Editor and Publisher of "The Sunnier Gazette" 

Author of Reflections by Uncle Ho— Awheel and Afoot— Zeyna elZegal, the Phantom Lady— Plowboys and Village Belles - 

Tin Trioiblini/ Skeleton Rucks— The liunixhel (sacheni^&torits in Bhyme—The Sawkee Princess, Etc. 









THIS NOTED 


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IOWA MAN OF LETTERS 


■B6 19 


WHO IS ALSO A 


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CULTURED DRAMATIC READER 


WmM 


AND 




TRAINED ACTOR 


Hyj^BI 


IN THE LECTURE FIELD 







\\ /Till a thoroughly prepared program of dramatic readings from his delight- 
ful "human interest" stories in rhyme, as well as some superb Indian le- 
gends, and choice bits of droll and sentimental verse. 

HIS PROGRAM 

Just a few bits of miscellaneous verse for an easy start, and then as follows: 
Josh's Old Oaken Sawbuck Bill's Schoolma'am 

Cowboy Jack's Story Puckawatamie's Revenge 

Farmer Jones and the Country Editor 



Prairie Flower of the Poncas 



and more, if he has time. These six make a splendid half dozen. Every one is a 
complete, fascinating story in verse form, each entirely different from the others, 
furnishing a variety that opens up new visions of interest continuously from start 
to finish, making a strong, pleasing, meritorious, resourceful attraction, all "Made 
in Iowa," and deserving of the most generous Iowa patronage and applause. 



You will like tins Jolly Story Man who talks to you in Rhyme, 
Ho will keep y<m interested and ;» smilin' nil the time. 



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Stories 



-in 



Rhyme 

"Uncle Ho" 

Homer P. Branch 



A SOUVENIR OF 
SUMNER, IOWA 



Seek ye the -star of empire," dear? 

Seek no further it is here, 

In Iowa: 
Our educators top the stark. 
Our politicians lead the pack. 
We forge ahead, we have the knack. 

In Iowa. —Uncle Ho. 



The Des Moines "Register and 
Leader" says that Mr. Branch has 
written more nice things about 
Iowa than has any other poet 
about any locality. 



This is the land of corn and wine! 
1 tell you what' we're feeling fine 

In Iowa: 
We raise the lmmpest bumper oats. 
The sleekest steers, the fattest shoats. 
And rind it easy to pay notes 

In Iowa. — Uncle Ho 



Uncle Ho's "Entertainment" is Unique 

HOMER P. BRANCH is an Iowa country editor who for a quarter of a cen- 
tury has been writing "booster poetry" of great merit for the Hawkeye 
state. The several papers he has edited have contained thousands of lines of 
"rhymed glory" about the excellencies of Iowa. In addition to his booster 
jingles, Mr. Branch has from time to time written rhymed stories of a kind 
peculiar to himself, and published them in his own paper. These are full 
of heart=throb, depicting scenes of interesting every day life. Droll, beautiful, 
pure, strong, intensely human, are the various characters portrayed. No one 
ever forgets big hearted, brave "Cowboy Jack," or neighborly, droll "Josh," 
or the experiences of "Farmer Jones," or the sweet and beautiful Indian girl 
"Prairie Flower," or her brave but awkward lover "Big Antlers," or tragic 
old "Puckawatamie;" and to know "Bill" and his "little schoolma'am" is to 
have acquaintances who grow into your friendship and get a grip on your 
heartstrings like the best of your own kin. 

Mr. Branch delivers these stories in a voice that is as musical as the 
ripple of his rhymes, with the compelling force and thrill of a skilled actor, 
and the winning manner of a born story teller. Not a dry minute in his 
program. Time flies. You forget about everything but the people and their 
doings in the story being told. 

SOUTHERNERS LIKE "UNCLE HO" 

lf „ „ _ Rustburg, Vol., April 25. 1912 

Jn: ( . />. Cunningham, 

Sec'// Retail business Men's Assn. 

Farmville, I a. 

Drur Sir: 

II, >n. Homer /'. Branch, of Iowa., the noted port mid essayist, who trill /,<■ 
with you tomorrow night, gave us u delightful occasion at School Fair Hull 
last evening, ,n dramatic readings from Ins lyrics and rhymed stories, for the 
benefit o/ the School Fair. His verse abounds with human interest, ably com- 
posed, and of true port i, - spirit. We were especially pleased with his "Bill's 
bchoolmaam and Farmer Jones and the Country Editor." You will find 
I, mi u I that Mr. LaBaume has promised. ''Uncle Ho" is a charming per- 
sonality, whose return to Rustburg at any time will be greeted with u cordial 
welcome. Yours huh,. 

S. C. GOGGIJV, 
('I iik Campbell County. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




018 603 552 5 « 



